


thirteen

by padfooted



Series: penumbra verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Pureblood) Racism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Bondage, F/M, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Mild Blood, Mulc is a total creeper, Physical Abuse, Racism, Revenge, Unhealthy Relationships, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padfooted/pseuds/padfooted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen volumes of war. (Three attacks and a werewolf bite are enough to harden a girl's heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over the underlined Spanish for translations.

Mary is in her fifth year when the fires of hell first engulf her. She is cramming for an Arithmancy test in the library, quill in her hair, when Titus Mulciber sidles up to her. Lily and Dorcas are at the first prefect meeting of the year; Mary is alone.

She feels it then, when he smiles a shark-grin at her; it’s as if an ominous wind has come and taken all the breath from her lungs.

Before she can say anything, he winks, holding up a finger to his mouth before taking her wrist and pulling her to an abandoned bookshelf. Mary is confused. He has never spoken to her before –-- no, aside from that one time Slughorn had assigned them to be partners. Then, he had hardly looked at her, not allowed himself to touch her. Titus had never mentioned blood, but she saw how he looked at her and Lily. She knew who his friends were.

Mary is afraid, but she is curious. This will be her downfall.

He casts Muffliato and Incarcerous without warning. Mary finds herself bound to the bookshelf behind her. Her eyes widen and her palms start to sweat.

“Little Mary,” Mulciber says, his teeth reflecting the light. It reminds Mary of the pictures of anglerfish that Abuela had in her books. _Predatory._ “Little Miriam,” Mulciber spits, like it’s a curse. Mary is more surprised that he knows her real name.

He approaches her and begins to pull up her nightshirt. Real fear hits Mary, the wind turning into a hurricane. Abuela has warned her about the men on the streets, the ones who take innocent girls and leave them dead and dry.

Mulciber points his wand at Mary’s dark skin. She feels the cool wood touch her thigh before it is pain; it fills her ears, runs through her veins. Mary hears a shrill sound. It takes the sting in her throat for her to realise she’s screaming.

He waits till the blood has run down her legs before leaving. “Silencio,” he mutters, his wand lazily pointed at her face. He unbinds Mary and watches her crumple onto the floor.

He doesn’t spare her a glance the next day.

* * *

Miriam Naomi Macdonald, raised by her [_abuela_](.) in a corner of London. Miriam, called Mary by the nice young professor who brings her Hogwarts letter. It’s the name she chose after they moved out of the Jewish community, where they still didn’t belong, if only because Abuela remained unrepentantly Dominican. Abuela had come from the Dominican Republic, but _Papá y Mamá_ had taken their only daughter to England, and Abuela would not be left behind.

Well, now they were dead, her parents, thrown around in a car crash in ‘67. Abuela was all she had left.

“We’ll pay for everything, of course.” Professor Sinistra smiles at the relief on Miriam's face. Miriam wants to be called by her real name, but she can be Mary, if she needs to be. If that’s what it’ll take.

* * *

“Merlin, Mary, you should have said something.”

She is seated at one of the windows, her leg dangling precariously on the ledge. The wind has blown at her robe, exposing her nightclothes. They are short enough that Mary’s scars glisten, long lines almost glowing bronze in the moonlight.

Mary takes a long drag from the cigarette she holds between two fingers, playing with the Muggle lighter she’d confiscated from Sirius earlier in the week. She looks at Remus, her eyebrows raised. They have been given the night shift, perhaps because the full moon is approaching.

Lily trusts Mary to take care of people. No one’s told Mary about Remus, but no one has to. Mary has learned to see. She ruffles his hair, pushing her flask of tea onto his chest. “Drink,” Mary says. “You look peaky.” He obeys, eyes still on her.

They are seventeen, and Remus looks at her like he could love her. Mary smiles at that; watching him with Sirius says otherwise. Still, Mary has been lonely, incredibly so. She snuffs the cigarette out and hops off the ledge, closing the space between them. Mary takes his hand in hers. She cups his face and draws him in; their kiss is smoke and peppermint tea.

For two years, they hold hands and go out, as if everything were normal.

But that is make-believe. Nothing is normal for children caught in war.

* * *

“Macdonald, Mary.”

They watch Mary walk up to the Hat with interest. Professor Sinistra smiles kindly at her and places the hat on her head. Mary feels rather than hears the Hat as it skims her every thought. She resists the urge to throw it to the ground, which is what Abuela would have wanted. _Unknown witchcraft is maldición,[nieta](%E2%80%9D.%E2%80%9D). It is a curse we do not want to deal with._

“Sturdy and brave, aren’t you?” The Hat’s voice resounds in her head. “My, my, Miriam, but there’s a fire in you, and such a _thirst_.” For what, the Hat doesn’t say, but it offers her many possibilities: lion, eagle, snake? It is only because Mary likes the colour red that she ends up in Gryffindor.

She often wonders what life would have been like if she’d chosen differently.

Mary is a typical student, and she falls deeply in love with Potions. She is one of the best students, but Slughorn passes her over for another Muggleborn, a vivacious one with green eyes and red hair. Mary thinks it’s because Slughorn can’t overlook her peculiarities, little rituals and superstitions she’d learned from her grandmother. Mary feels a pang of hurt before moving on. It is enough that she learns.

* * *

She faces [el infierno](%E2%80%9D.%E2%80%9D) again at the height of the war. Mary is a member of the Order, though not one as trusted as her friends. She hopes it’s because of her youth and not the way she rolls her r’s nor the star she wears beneath her robes.

When she is abducted by Death Eaters, Mary’s first thought is,  _[Buen.](%E2%80%9D.%E2%80%9D) They will get nothing from me. _ They beat and torture her, carving words on her skin. About thirty scars are added to the seven she already has, some thin lines and large strokes. Her body is their canvas, her blood their paint. They take delight in the contrast of brown on darker brown.

Mary looks down at her body and does not recognize it.

Mercifully, they do not touch her _that_ way, though she suspects the older Carrow wants to. Alecto resembles Lily so much it hurts, but no two people could be more different. The saliva Alecto spits in her face is proof of that.

She wonders what she’s done to deserve this life. It’s the thought at the front of her mind whenever a blade is pressed against her abdomen. It would be so easy for her to throw herself onto their knives: escape is a few pints of blood lost, a wound infected; but Mary knows that a good curse needs her alive for it to begin.

* * *

Mary is returned to the Order after three weeks, dumped on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole for Molly Weasley to find. She awakens to the sight of Remus and Sirius, twin expressions of worry on their faces. They are holding hands. Mary feels a twinge of joy, but that is nothing to the loneliness that threatens to swallow her alive.

Even he has left her.

* * *

Abuela has been reluctant to let Mary work at the shop. “You must study, _nieta_ , not cut the legs off frogs.”

“I’m thirteen, Abuela,” Mary says. “And I cut frog’s legs at school, anyway.” It is true; helping Abuela is like advanced lessons with Slughorn, though all that Mary learns from her grandmother is submerged in tradition and rituals.

Besides, not helping Abuela would be [de perdición](%E2%80%9D.%E2%80%9D). Her parents would probably rise from their graves if they discovered she had neglected her duties. God knows Abuela works hard enough. By day, she is a waitress, but she works throughout the night, telling fortunes and bestowing zafa even on those who only half-believe.

Later, Mary wonders if all the zafa --- all the countercurses and protection Abuela gave away --- is the reason for all her bad luck. Mary knows there is la maldición upon their kin. She hopes Abuela teaches her how to channel it at all those fuckers who ruined her life.

* * *

 _[Increíble.](%E2%80%9C.%E2%80%9D)_ That is all she can say in the face of everything that continues to happen.

“How does it feel, litle girl?” The man talking to her has said his name, but she knows who he is. Fenrir Greyback needs no introductions; only a fool would not recognise the shaggy blond hair and feral eyes. He is wolf even when the moon is unseen, the savage snarl marring his clasically attractive features.

Mary wants to reply flippantly. ‘It feels great.’ ‘[Me siento muy bien.](.)’ All these and more at the tip of her tongue, but even she cannot mask her fear. Her frustration. She is a stranger in a strange world: Dominican, Jewish, Muggleborn. She has been ignored, bullied, tortured.

And here she is again.

Her throat is dry, so spitting in his face takes effort. Mary is tired, but her aim is sure, and she gets Fenrir right in the eye.

He keeps her till the next full moon and bites her more than once, adding to her armament of scars.

* * *

Mary stays inside for a good month. Everyone says she has the right to. She knows what they whisper about her. Few know why she keeps herself alive, and the cruel ones have a bet going on the next tragedy to befall her. Mary ignores them all. She is almost scientific in her analysis of her wounds. Occasionally, she draws over them with a felt-tip pen, trying to make sense of the deep jagged lines.

All of her nightmares blend together. She smokes incessantly and fights sleep, sitting on her window sill and watching the street below. She is on the seventh floor, and a jump would only maim her further. Mary is tired of being defaced, the brick wall of a lonely alleyway, for random passers-by to gawk at and destroy.

Then she emerges, a butterfly from a cocoon. She tells no one of the kindly Muggle therapist she visits, pays, then Obliviates. She carries herself with a grace that belies the sleepless nights and shaky hands.

Mary no longer eats in public. The smell of raw meat makes people nauseous.

* * *

When Voldemort disappears, the Order doesn’t know whether to rejoice because Dumbledore is gone, too. For a moment, the wizarding world is shaken by the scuffle for power. It is easy for the Death Eaters to take over.

Mary has lost all hope in the world, in the grand scheme of things that Professor Dumbledore used to wax poetic about. She can only trust herself. Her pariah status allows her to make a name for herself. Even wizards become overly superstitious in the face of miracles, and the touch of a foreign Muggleborn werewolf seems so unlucky it becomes protection.

Fenrir is dead, but his pack is not, and Mary has wormed her way in. She goes from Delta to Beta to Alpha over a night of the full moon. They obey her without question; she is the kindest alpha they’ve had in decades. She hands them all Wolfsbane potions and comforts them in the moonlight. Abuela is outside watching the door, making sure it stays shut. In their confinement is their freedom.

* * *

“There is someone outside for you.” Abuela’s tone is matched only by the knife she hands Mary on her way out. Her pack has always been afraid of the old woman; they know to show deference to their superiors.

Titus Mulciber is the last person she expects on her doorstep. Her instinct is to plunge the blade into his heart, but she settles for backing him up against the wall. She points her wand at his throat with a snarl. Mary stares at him wordlessly, digging her wand onto his adam’s apple. He splutters.

It would be so easy to puncture the thin layer of skin. For once, Mary would be the one drawing blood.

She eases the pressure slightly, allowing him to breathe. Gasping, he says, “I hear you’re alpha bitch around here.”

Mary feels close to wretching; being in close proximity to him brings back the cold and terrible nights she spent at the mercy of the Death Eaters. The sickly strong odour of his cologne chokes her. Mary cannot help the tears that stream down her face, but her voice is sure.

“What do you want?”

“Companionship,” he says, shrugging. The sweat at his temple betrays his fear. “Fenrir took more than one victim.” He grinds the words between his teeth. “And Mother found out.” Mary stares at him blankly. He matches her gaze, the downturn of his lips sullen. He is pathetic.

When he enters the saferoom three weeks later, the others jostle him around. They know he’s responsible for the scars on their alpha’s legs.

* * *

"I've been hearing things," Sirius says. In the wake of the war, his family has attempted to take him back. Sirius is the prodigal son restored, albeit unwillingly. Narcissa tells him everything. "Mulciber's been going around saying that you've been fucking him."

Her eyes narrow. She says nothing, but someone _will_ pay for this.

* * *

> "Come to my house."

The threat in the note she sends is implicit. Mary is fuming silently, her whole body shaking with rage. She hears a knock on the door and goes to answer it. They walk to her kitchen and sit at the table, like two friends about to have their afternoon tea.

"What have you been telling people?" Her voice is one low note, a string poised to snap.

"That we've been fucking. That you like my dick in you, you _dirty_ Mudblood--"

Wordlessly, Mary binds him to the chair. The sight of thick ropes makes her head spin and palms sweat, but they keep him at bay. She stares at him in disbelief, watching the scowl on his face grow uglier as he grins. In that moment, Mary realises the truth.

"I could kill you now. I could, and no one would look for you. No one would want you. You hate yourself, don't you? Having to listen to me, a Mudblood." The word is bitter on her tongue, but wormwood is necessary in her draught of peace.

She takes a knife from the table. It is meant to extract the essence of things; tonight it will fulfill its purpose. He is not afraid of it, she sees. He closes his eyes and welcomes the first touch of the blade against his skin.

“Why? All those years ago. Why?”

“Because I could. Because you disgusted me.” She notes the past tense and wonders if he is asking for pity.

Mary drags it across his cheek, watches the blood. He groans low, and Mary cannot tell whether it is in pain or pleasure. She cannot stand the sight of his blood, and with a flick of her wand, she heals the cut. Mulciber moans in earnest, and Mary has her answer.

She makes him a deal: she will tie him up and let him find release. He does not get to touch her. The marks she makes will not be permanent, though he would very much like them to be. Mary will not give him the satisfaction.

She reasons it will help her get it out of her system, help her feel as if revenge has been exacted. Instead of the guilt or disgust she expects to feel, a heady sort of power courses through her. Gone is the fear of almost a decade; in its place is the strange ache of loss, a burden lifted.

Her grin is a blade in the light. "Let's try this again."

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of Dominican curses comes mostly from The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. (Excellent book.) I did do some reading, however, and subsequently added things from [here](https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=y76Tz6N3-3UC&pg=PA191&lpg=PA191&dq=folklore+dominican+republic+fuku&source=bl&ots=ZPNW2yTnSW&sig=2vYx34RS52AMrCji5Jn2wpEL3JA&hl=en&sa=X&ei=fePEVP-WKMPMmwXcs4DICA&ved=0CEsQ6AEwBg#v=onepage&q=folklore%20dominican%20republic%20fuku&f=false). If you have any corrections, feel free to comment below! The canon-divergent universe is a collaborative effort with my favourite Australian, Honey, who helped come up with the title.


End file.
